


The Plural Doctor

by Spaceyjdjames



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Mpreg, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 05:25:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2055318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spaceyjdjames/pseuds/Spaceyjdjames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson needs to come to terms with his friend's apparent death, as well as some other significant changes in his life...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Plural Doctor

**Author's Note:**

> This was started before season 3 came out and takes place between seasons 2 and 3. I'm sure that it doesn't all make sense anymore with the revelations in season 3, but hey, it's a product of its time.
> 
> I sort of painted myself into a corner with Mycroft's genius plan, but hopefully I'll figure that out someday and come back and finish this.

“There’s just one more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock. For me. Don’t. Be,” John hesitated for a moment as his voice cracked. “Dead.” The last word came out as a whisper. John reached out and patted Sherlock’s tombstone, wishing it were the shoulder of his late friend.  He felt nauseous. He felt emotions that his time in the military taught him men were not supposed to feel. John Watson walked away, unable to admit to himself that his roommate, his friend, and so much more, Sherlock Holmes, was truly dead.

*             *             *

Sherlock Holmes watched John from behind a tree, an unusual guilt overtaking him. Sherlock knew that faking his death to protect them—John, mostly, but not just John—was the right choice. It had to be done. Sherlock Holmes did not feel guilt over making the right choice. Normal people might, but not Holmes. Why, then, did he feel this way? With one last glance at the hunk of granite that served as a reminder of the defrauded Sherlock Holmes, he left.

*             *             *

John thought about talking to his therapist again. He knew he should. But still, he could not admit that Sherlock was dead. Instead he went to the pub.

 

“Give me one of,” John trailed off. He usually ordered a pint of lager, but this day the thought of it made his throat clench up. “Get me something stiff that’s easy to drink. Two of them.” The bartender returned momentarily with a pair of vodka cranberries. John paid, tipped generously, and had finished both before the bartender returned with change.

 

“One a those days, is it?” asked the man behind the counter.

 

“My therapist wants me to tell her something I know is true. I was at his grave today. Even there, alone, I couldn’t say it. I think I’ll have a few more of these and see if I can’t get myself hit by a bus before I have to see anymore papers about how my best friend was a psychopath.”

 

A large man down the bar had been laughing boisterously with his colleagues when John entered the pub, but had gradually gotten quieter and quieter as he stared Watson down. Now he was getting to his feet and anger was in his face.

 

“It is you. I fucken knew it was, recognized you from the papers I did. Your boyfriend was the one what pretended to solve all them crimes. Guess it’s awful easy to find a killer when the killer’s you!” He laughed and slapped Watson across the back.

*             *             *

Sherlock was watching his friend at the pub. John was a disaster. He had no idea what was happening with his mind, and he was taking it out on his body.Sherlock was prepared to let him consume two units of alcohol but beyond that he would have to intervene. But before he needed to, the large man had gone up to John. Sherlock knew his friend was about to get into a fight. If John wanted to win the fight, he could. But Sherlock wasn’t sure that John did want to win the fight. For the last month John had become utterly unpredictable, which was whySherlock had not let him out of sight in that time.

*             *             *

John was standing up and turning to face the large, drunk man. At his full height, John only came up to the man’s chest. But something in John’s eyes caused the man to take pause. The man didn’t know it, but it was the look that came from being around death. John had had men die in his arms, he had had men die with his hands in their guts, trying to fish out a bullet or stitch a wound. And yes, John had killed men. The man almost backed away, but John didn’t want him to back away. John was looking for a fight. It beat the drinks that made him feel sick. Fighting would make him feel alive, if only for a moment. And John hadn’t felt alive since… He still couldn’t say it, even in his head. Since he had last seenSherlock.

 

“I recognize you too,” John was saying to the man. “I think I saw you in the museum. You were wearing fur and carrying around a pointy stick you BIG FUCKING APE!” John shouted at the man, leaning forward, spit flying from his mouth. He seemed to tower over the man who outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds. But the man was the type who wouldn’t take an insult.

 

“You just made a mistake, you fucken poof,” said the man. He prepared a punch to John’s abdomen, but John knew it was coming. Perhaps he had learned a bit about deductive reasoning, for John had already figured out that the man would go for a low shot and would put all his weight behind it. As the fist came toward him, John sidestepped, turned, and grabbed the man’s fist, pulling him around and using his momentum to spin him headfirst into the bar. The man was out in an instant, and John was cognizant enough to note that he would seem to have no permanent damage. But the man’s friends were getting up and heading over now.

*             *             *

Sherlock observed the rest of the fight relieved, and somewhat impressed. He was glad John was fighting to win, though he regretted that his friend would not move on. For all John knew, Sherlock truly was a fake, and a corpse at that. Why wouldn’t John come to terms so both of them could move on? AndSherlock knew, John would have plenty more to come to terms with soon. Still, a night in jail meant a night where Sherlock wouldn’t have to watch him, and a night in which he could research their coming problem.

*             *             *

John made it a point to never regret it when he got in a fight over Sherlock. He had hit far more important people than a few drunks at the pub for insulting his friend. However, his record was still clean, thanks to his connection with Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. But John couldn’t go to him this time. Not after the part Lestrade had played in Sherlock’s defamation. But as it turned out, John wouldn’t have to go to Lestrade, as the detective was standing outside John’s cell.

 

“Doctor Watson,” said Lestrade. “John. You hafta quit this. Every time I have to come down here, I’m putting my reputation on the line. He’s dead, John. You need to move on, figure out what you’re doing next.”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Greg. Sorry that fighting for the truth inconveniences you. Even if he’s… Even if Sherlock is gone, what you did to him, it was wrong. You knowSherlock. You know there’s no way he made those all up. How many cases did he help you solve? And for what? Nobody even knew his name before… Before I started that damnable blog! Before I got us in the papers, made us a name!”

 

“John, shut up for a minute. Did you learn nothing? Do you really think Sherlockwould have got himself up on that roof if he didn’t want to be there? Use that deductive reasoning Sherlock was always  on about. Would some children’s show actor and a journalist who hadn’t got her scoop yet really going to outsmart the great Sherlock Holmes? Even if everything they said were true, theSherlock they painted was still smarter than all that. Therefore…”

 

“Therefore Sherlock had a plan. By god, he faked his death!”

 

“John, no. That’s not where I was going.”

 

“No, Greg. That’s it! I don’t know how, but the bastard is alive!”

 

“John, listen. That’s not how it happened. You saw him fall. You saw his body. How could he fake that? There were dozens of witnesses. What I’m trying to say is… Remember when I said that Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day maybe he’d be a good man? Well he’s finally done it. Through his death,Sherlock managed to take out Moriarty, the man so powerful he broke into the three most heavily guarded places in London and walk free. Don’t you get it?Sherlock is a martyr. And there’s only a few of us who can know it. You do his memory a disservice when you refuse to admit it.”

 

John pretended to be convinced, but now more than ever he was sure thatSherlock was alive. His mind kept racing back to the moment Sherlock jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew’s. The cyclist who knocked John down, he was in on it. The truck that blocked the view. All the doctors and nurses. Stopping John from checking the pulse. John shook his head. There was no way Sherlockcould have orchestrated a conspiracy that deep. Sherlock’s only network was the homeless underground, and a bunch of vagrants would be hard-pressed to pass for doctors. John was starting to sound like a nutter.

 

“John. I know you are having trouble adjusting. Sherlock kept you distracted, but you never really came back from Afghanistan, did you?” John didn’t answer. He knew Lestrade was right. Getting swept up in the fantasy world of SherlockHolmes’ life had distracted him, but that was over, one way or another. IfSherlock Holmes wanted not to be found, he wouldn’t be. Lestrade wasn’t finished, though. “We need someone like you, John. You’re a good doctor, you don’t flinch from the gore, and military experience is always well-received in Scotland Yard. I know you’re a bit overqualified, but Molly could use an assistant down in the lab.”

 

“I don’t need—” started Watson, but he was cut off.

 

“I know it’s a lot to think on now,” said the inspector. “Consider it over night and I’ll be back here in the morning.”

 

“You mean you’re leaving me in this cell over night?”

 

“Wouldn’t you agree that’s probably best, Doctor?” John couldn’t disagree.

 

John did think about Lestrade’s offer. Quite a lot. Moriarty’s body would have passed through the morgue. Sherlock’s, too. There may not be a paper trail, but two bodies are not easy to make disappear. Maybe Sherlock did want to be found, just not by the wrong person. Only John could work so closely with Lestrade and Molly. Eventually he fell asleep, doubting his sanity a bit, but, he convinced himself, at least he had a plan.

 

John woke up feeling quite ill. After vomiting into the stainless steel loo in his cell, John swore off those detestable sweet drinks, no matter how ill the thought of a pint might make him. Not long after John awoke, Lestrade came back to his cell, handing him a cup of coffee, black, in a paper cup.

 

“You’re right, Greg,” said John. “I’ll give it a go. I need to get on with life.”

*             *             *

Sherlock didn’t sleep a wink that night. But he had long since trained himself to thrive on catnaps, and his somewhat manic personality kept him sharp as long as he was being stimulated. And what could be more stimulating than putting together these pieces that nobody else could even tell were from the same puzzle? The only solution to which most minds would consider impossible! In fact, Sherlock was quite impressed at the ingenuity of Mycroft. Or rather, the British Government. But Sherlock knew that his brother essentially  _was_  the British government. Oh how he had played Sherlock, in a way Sherlock had always dreamed of! Even Moriarty had been part of the ruse. A nemesis, custom built to sweep Sherlock up and distract him from the highly improbable truth, then get him out of the picture once the time was right:

 

John Watson was pregnant.

*             *             *

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was morning sickness,” said Molly, laughing awkwardly as she returned a lock of hair to its place behind her ear.

 

“Must’ve been the breakfast burrito,” said John, pulling himself up from the rubbish bin. He wiped his mouth with a napkin before continuing. “I should’ve known better than to risk caf food. I usually just have some tea and biscuits but I was running late. Didn’t sleep well.” What he didn’t say was that his lack of sleep resulted from rummaging through the morgue records in the night, looking for a body or two that never officially left. Sherlock would have been thorough in his plan, but how careful could Molly be? But thinking of Molly gave Watson an idea.

 

“Listen Molly,” he said. “It’s no secret that you… had a bit of a thing forSherlock, yeah?”

 

“I- Well,” she started, but John stopped her.

 

“No, it’s fine. He’s a great man. I only bring it up because… Well, I thought that you might…” His voice dropped. He felt bad for the half of what he was saying that was a lie, but the true part was proving to be a relief. “I haven’t been doing great since Sherlock…” he looked down and bit his knuckle for a second, then continued. “Jumped. And since you… I thought I might be able to talk to you about it.” John still felt a tad ill, and knowing he was manipulating Molly was not helping. Sherlock might have been able to do that, but not John.

 

Molly looked wistful for a second. John tried to read the look. Was it regret? Longing? Debating whether to share a secret? Then she recovered and looked back at John. “Yeah. You can talk to me,” she said, and smiled one of her brief, graceless, sincere smiles. “While we work,” she added, gesturing to a cadaver on a gurney, its ribs spread wide and most of its organs already removed.

 

How would Sherlock get the information out of her, John wondered. Play off her empathy? “It’s just that… I feel like I’m losing my mind. I just can’t accept that he’s… I can’t even say it. I get all these crazy theories in my head about how he could have faked it, but I was there. I saw him jump. There’s no way he could survive a fall that that.” He paused. “I saw his body, for god’s sake!”

 

Listening to John spill his heart was torture for Molly. She agreed to helpSherlock fake his death because she loved him. When Sherlock had insisted nobody could know, not even John, she had allowed herself to feel a bit of pride at that. Sherlock was keeping a secret with her and her alone! But the more John talked the more Molly had to think back, and burst her fantastic notions ofSherlock. How many times had he manipulated her, embarrassed her, completely disregarded her emotions? And now he was doing the same to John.Sherlock couldn’t know how much he was hurting John because Sherlock didn’t understand empathy. Donovan was right, in a way. Sherlock was a sociopath, even if he never committed any crimes. And now he was letting his best friend suffer, and making Molly suffer on top of it, to have to keep this secret for the man she loved, even though he could only think of her as a tool. And because she loved Sherlock, she couldn’t betray him.

 

But what do you say to someone who correctly believes some sort of elaborate conspiracy faked his friends’ death? Molly thought about it, and wondered what she herself would want to hear in such a situation, had the roles been reversed. She would want the suffering to end. “John,” she said, not really knowing where to start. “I know it’s hard, but you have to admit it. Sherlock is dead. You saw the fall, you saw the body. He came through this very room. I gave him the autopsy.” At least, officially. “You have to say it. Over and over. It’s what I had to—“ But Molly was interrupted by her own unexpected tears. “It’s what I had to do, John,” she continued after a suppressed sob. “Say it with me. SherlockHolmes is dead. Sherlock Holmes is dead. Sherlock Holmes is dead.”

 

John tried to join in to her chant. He got as far as “Sherlock Holmes is—“ before the bile rose up in him so suddenly that he didn’t have time to choke it down and run to the trash bin again. He managed to point it downward, rather than straight ahead at Molly’s face. Down into the abdomen of the cadaver he vomited, and realized he had hit a low point. Here he was, chasing a conspiracy, vomiting into a corpse because he couldn’t admit that a man he hardly knew had died. He slid to the ground, backed up against the cold chambers, and started to sob. He didn’t realize Molly had left to fetch him some water until she returned, propped on her knees to offer it to him. Before he took it, he looked up at her through his tears, wiped his mouth and nose with his sleeve, and faked a smile. “SherlockHolmes is dead,” he whispered to her. “Thank you.” And he took the glass, and drank it, and let her sit next to him and comfort him.

*             *             *

Sherlock felt like jumping for joy. In fact he did, a little, clicking his heels together like on television. Does anybody actually do that, he wondered. In real life? He couldn’t remember having seen it ever, except ironically. What a strange phrase.

 

Sherlock felt invigorated. He was almost there. All the threads coming together into a beautiful tapestry. Honestly, he never had considered that his brother would have it in him, to weave such a delicate, elegant web. In fact, it was probably all of England’s greatest military minds, together that came up with it, and limitless resources to pull it off. Sherlock couldn’t himself have imagined a greater mystery to solve. And he was nearly there! After years of looking at the pieces and thinking they were each whole. Genius, Mycroft! Thank you!

*             *             *

For the first time in many years, John Watson had to think about what came next. He had joined the military in the first place to avoid that question, and had stayed there beyond his initial contract for the same reason. And even his time with Sherlock was just another example of John running away from the question.

 

John had been a doctor in Afghanistan, but he had chosen that path more out of convenience than a strong desire to help others. The extra time spent studying had been that much less time in combat training, and ultimately meant his time on the field was spent saving lives rather than taking them, an action which he was comfortable with when necessary but also happy to avoid whenever possible. Perhaps John could finally rejoin the real world, start planning for the future. Maybe he would find a girl, and eventually start a family. The thought didn’t repel him, but John couldn’t exactly say he would be excited to become a father. Still, maybe caring for another human would be what John needed to keep his life going. Maybe he would get used to being normal, eventually.

 

“John,” Molly said. Then she giggled a little and looked down. “It’s weird, giving you orders. It’s weird talking to you at all, really, with Sherlock not here to embarrass me. Um, I was just wondering if you could give me a hand with this autopsy. He’s heavy.”

 

“Sure,” said John. He didn’t say so out loud, but it was weird for him too. Weird in a sort of… intimate way, he realized suddenly. For once, rather than suppressing the emotion, and trying to convince himself he was too busy for such a thing, John decided to act on it. He walked over and helped Molly turn the cadaver over on its gurney so she could get to the parts she needed. When it was arranged properly he said, “Listen, Molly. Um, what are you doing tonight? That is, I was wondering if you would care to… come to dinner with me. As a date.” John was fairly impressed with himself. He had never been able to be so forward asking someone out.

 

“Oh!” Molly said. John started to panic. Perhaps he had been too forward. But then she said, “I, um, well… Yes! I would like to come to dinner with you!” and she smiled and John smiled back and nodded.

 

“Great,” he said. “Great.” And he meant it.


End file.
